The Witch's Eye (14 page)

Cross had barely
exchanged words with the other prisoners.  He’d been more concerned with keeping away from them in case they decided he looked tasty enough to eat.  They were almost indistinguishable from one another with their sand-blasted skin, grimy nails and hair made slick with dirt and grease.  They all looked like they’d been whipped and beaten. 

He couldn
’t imagine they were all criminals – that wouldn’t have made any sense – and yet they all regarded each other like a band of ravenous pack animals, men turned to dogs.  There were no female prisoners, which Cross decided was a good thing.  They were all human, which told him they’d likely been settlers or workers from the revived city of Rhaine.  Last he’d heard the garrison at Rhaine was badly undermanned, and the few soldiers stationed there hadn’t been all that effective at maintaining order.

“You,” one
prisoner said.  He had long and ratty hair, his eyes were bloodshot, and Cross couldn’t help but notice his teeth had been filed to points.  “Do you have something to eat?”

The prisoners were crowded together.  The stench of body odor and unwashed breath was thick even with the open bars
on the sides of the wagon.  The floor of the dark vehicle was awash with filth and straw.   

“No,” he breathed, and
the pain in his mouth and throat made him realize it had been some time since he’d spoken. 

“Yes you do,” the man hissed, and he lunged
at Cross.  Cross grabbed a fistful of the man’s hair and slammed his face into the bars.  Blood spurted from dry lips and broken skin.

He let
his attacker fall to the floor.  Two of the other prisoners laughed and started pounding the man with their fists and bare feet, seemingly just for the pleasure of being able to take out their frustrations on a helpless victim.  Cross turned away, ignoring them.

“You a soldier?” another prisoner asked him
, a man with a faint Irish accent.  He was older, probably in his fifties, with a short grey beard and thinning hair.  His eyes were large and expressive, and his tattered clothing was covered in pulverized pumice and cold dry soil from the Bone March.  “You have the
look
of a soldier,” he smiled.

M
ost of the other prisoners stared out into the wastelands.

“I
was
a soldier,” he nodded. 

“Was,” the man said with a sly grin.  “As in
‘Not anymore’.”

Cross nodded.

“Well, thank you for smacking that fool’s head against the metal.  He’s been eying me like a prized fish all morning, and I was getting tired of it.”

Cross laughed.

“My pleasure.”

“Name
’s Flintlock.  But you can call me Flint.”

“Cross.”

“Nice to meet you, Cross.”  Flint offered up his dirty hand, and Cross shook it. 

“You stand out a bit from the rest, Flint,” he said. 

“They know better than to fuck with a former Marine,” he said with a wink. 

“Southern Claw?” Cross asked.

“Oh, hell no.  I’d just gotten out when The Black came.  Had to get my wife to safety, take care of her.”  He read the question on Cross’s face.  “That was a long time ago.”

The wagon rolled along.
  The injured man retreated to his corner.  His face, nose and mouth were bloody.  The others looked around as if ready to pounce on one another.  Someone complained loudly about how badly his ass hurt. 

T
he slavers rode on, sometimes close to the wagon, sometimes farther away.  They paid the prisoners little heed.  The air was stiff and cold and the cracked landscape seemed to go on forever.  Shadows from black clouds darkened the ground.

“How long?” Cross asked Flint.

Flint looked at him sideways. 

“How long…what?”
His voice was dry and cracked. 

“How long have you been in this wagon?”

Flint looked out again, considering. 

“Two days.  My friend and I were scouting for water on the low ridge of Black Rock, out near
Rhaine.  There’s lots of open territory there…
unclaimed
territory.  A water source is worth more than money in those parts, where mages are scarce.”  He looked sorrowful, lost in a memory. 

“Your friend?” Cross asked.

“Right here,” came a voice from Cross’s right.  He hadn’t even seen the boy in the shadows.  The young man was eleven, maybe twelve, with big eyes, a sour expression, and longish hair that half-covered his face.   

“Meet Shiv,” Flint said. 

“You don’t look like a soldier,” Shiv said.  He hadn’t hit puberty yet – his voice was still light, making Shiv rather androgynous, even for a pre-teen boy.

“I
’m not,” Cross said.  “Not really.  But I used to be.”

“Hunter Squad?” Flint asked.  Cross nodded.  “I admire what you do.  That can
’t be easy.”

“Nothing is easy,” Cross said.

“Shut up in there!” one of the mercenaries yelled, an unshaved man with dirty teeth and aviation goggles.  He didn’t look all that different from the prisoners: his clothing was covered in dust, his hair was ratty and unkempt, and his fingers were filthy.  He wore a bandolier and carried a shotgun and a number of throwing knives.

He rode closer.  His dun bay
wore a heavy saddle. The rider smiled as he leaned in close.

“I said…shut up.”

“We heard you,” Cross said.

The man looked taken aback.

“What’s the problem, Krayker?” asked Joro, the bandana-wearing sniper. 

“This little piece of shit just talked back to me.”

“Cut out his tongue,” Kala suggested with a smile.  The others laughed. 

“I think I might just do that,” Krayker said
in his heavy southern drawl.  He drew his knife and twirled it back and forth in his hand.  “Would you
like
that, you little fuck?” he sneered.  “I can cut it out and feed it to you.  How do you think your own tongue would taste, bitch?”

“Cut off my ears instead,” Cross said.  “So I don
’t have to listen to any more of your bullshit.”

“Stop the wagon, Rask!” Krayker shouted, and the
vehicle ground to a halt.

“What
the hell are you doing?” Flint asked him.  “Just shut up and let him alone.”

“Bit late for that now,” Cross said.

Krayker leapt down from the saddle.  Dust filled the air as the horses stamped to a halt.  The slaver handed the reins of his mount to Joro and ran up to the wagon with a snarl on his lips.

“I
’m gonna cut you, bitch,” he said quietly.  He couldn’t stop smiling.  “I’m gonna cut you good.”

“What
’s going on?”

Tain rode up quietly.  His face was almost invisible beneath the
hood of his heavy cloak.  Piercing wind scraped across the plains behind him.

Krayker hesitated.

“Just gonna teach our new prisoner a lesson,” he said.

“No you
’re not,” Tain said.  He spoke softly, and yet his words carried loud.  The man’s spirit wound her way into the wagon like a slithering coil of seductive energy and latched onto Cross with hot claws.  She smelled of new-formed glaciers and volcanic heat.

Krayker was pushed back
by an invisible force, and his eyes went wide as he fell to his knees.

Cross took a
deep breath.  He knew what was about to happen.

Pain
shot through his gut.  His body was thrown back against the bars by a phantom force, and he fell to the floor of the wagon.  Hands grabbed him, and it took all his strength to fight them off.  Nails painfully raked his face.  Someone kicked him in the shoulder, and then the groin. 

C
old air blasted through the wagon and threw everyone back.  Cross heard groans and cries, but after a moment the air went silent. 

He unfolded himself. 
Pain wracked his body.  He couldn’t find the strength to rise.  Someone helped him to his feet.  Cross couldn’t see with the sweat in his eyes, and he was so dizzy he almost fell over again.  He wondered if his ribs were cracked.  Blood ran from his split lips, and his tongue probed a loosened tooth. 

Flint held him up.  The man was shaken, and there was blood on his cheek.  The boy, Shiv,
helped support Cross from the other side.  They slowly escorted him back to the bars while the rest of the prisoners recovered.  Every motion sent jolts of pain across Cross’s skin.  Blood oozed from his forehead and ran down the side of his nose.  It hurt to breathe. 

Krayker
was on the ground outside, holding his groin and moaning in pain. 

Tain
stood next to the wagon and looked in at Cross.  The mage’s unshaven face was drenched with sweat, and one of his eyes was made of glass.  Deep scars ran down his right cheek, and he was skeletally thin, almost gaunt.  He had a sour expression on his face.

“Don
’t do that again,” he said quietly.  “Next time I’ll let Krayker have his way with you.”  He nodded at the prisoners in the wagon.  “Or I’ll give you to
them
.”

Cross couldn
’t find the breath to respond.

Tain turned away, and Cross
’s heart sank as he watched him go.  The bandit leader wore Soulrazor/Avenger slung across his back.

That
’s why he spared me
, he thought. 
He wants to know how it works.

Cross rested.  The rocking motion of the wagon lulled him to sleep in spite of his pain.   

The prisoners remained docile.  No one wanted to incur more of Tain
’s wrath, especially since one of the men had died from the ethereal torture, and another seemed to have permanently lost his sight.  The fact that the blind man was an enormous brute was the only thing that kept the others from tearing him apart.

Cross could
n’t imagine how long the slaves must have been imprisoned for them to have turned so savage.  He’d already lost track of time, and Flint and Shiv had been prisoners longer than he had.  He was surprised the others had allowed an older man and a young boy to even live through the first night.

His stomach
twisted with hunger.  His cracked lips leaked syrupy blood, and the scratches on his face and neck stung.  His back and shoulder were stiff.

T
he world passed by in silence.  The sun rode low in the sky.  Occasional heaps of gravel were all that broke up the monotony of the terrain.  The air smelled of volcanic ash and burning cinders. 

“You okay?” Flint asked. 
Cross realized Flint had already asked him that question, and he just hadn’t answered.

“Yeah,” he coughed.  He wasn
’t, and he was fairly certain Flint knew that, but he’d been raised to always say you were OK when people asked, even if you weren’t. 

“You,” Flint said as he patted Cross
’s bleeding forehead with a small piece of cloth, “are a fucking idiot.”

“There actually
was a point to all of that,” Cross said quietly.  “I wanted to see how easy they were to bait.  It was a bit of a gamble.”

“A
bit
,” Flint laughed.

They looked outside.  Krayker rode at a distance.  Joro was the nearest slaver, and he seemed completely disinterested in the wagon. 

“They’re quick to anger,” Flint said quietly.  “But Tain keeps them in line.”

Cross finally managed to sit
up; his back burned with pain, and the wounds on his neck and face stung.  He’d have to figure out a way to sterilize himself, since there was no telling what infections he might catch from the other prisoner’s filthy fingernails.  He didn’t think he’d been bitten, which was probably the best news he’d had all day.  

“
He also wants me alive,” Cross said quietly. 

“And why is that?” Flint asked. 

“My sword,” Cross said.  “He wants to know how it works.”

“
How hard can it be?  It’s a
sword
, isn’t it?” 

“Not exactly,” Cross said. 

“All right, so now you know you can bait them, just like you also know that doing so is pointless, since Tain could kill us all with a thought,” Flint said.  “Damn warlocks.”

“Damn warlocks,” Cross echoed.

Flint leaned in closer.  There was anger in his voice.

“Don
’t endanger my boy like that again,” he said.  “I’ll take my chances in Dirge, or in whatever hellhole they’re taking us to.  We might survive in a place like that – we’re hard workers, we don’t start trouble, and we have skills.  None of that matters, though, if we die because you want to test the waters and see if you can escape.”

Flint spoke quietly
so as not to be heard by anyone but Cross.  Shiv was asleep nearby.  The boy had a fresh bruise on his face, and he looked bone tired and too thin.